


bones sinking like stones

by queenofglass



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-18
Updated: 2012-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-31 09:48:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/342644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofglass/pseuds/queenofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the moon’s turn, Val decides to steal a man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bones sinking like stones

At the moon’s turn, Val decides to steal a man.

 _There is no better time_. Girls she had grown up with are whisked away every night, stolen by neighboring tribes. Some return by daybreak, with smiles and pieces of their abductors—fingers, hands, heads. The men of the clan call them wild women, and feast in their honor.

Val doesn’t want to be stolen; she wants to steal a mate of her own.

She tells no one of her plans, not even Dalla. Her older sister is angling to become a spearwife, but supplies are scarce. Another raid is won’t occur for weeks.

 _She’ll discourage me, she’ll tell Father, she’ll never let me go_.

While Val sharpens her knife, she eavesdrops on the council conversation. A nearby clan has set up camp just beyond the river pass. Members of her own tribe have armed themselves to the teeth in response. This group has livestock, women, and children. If they are to leave, it won’t be for several days.

It’s agony to wait for her father and sister to fall asleep, but when they do, she arms herself and dresses warmly. This task might take hours. Val moves through the forest like a ghost, her tread no louder than a whisper.

“The Thief is in the Moonmaid,” she whispers excitedly. _A good omen_.

Val is freshly sixteen, but no stranger to the stealing custom. Dalla was nearly taken two namedays ago, when she was seventeen. Their father beamed brighter than the sun that morning, when his firstborn daughter presented him with the severed arm of her kidnapper.

 _I want to make Father smile_ , Val thought. _Dalla may be the elder sister, but I’m his special girl, he told me so_.

The other clan is careless with their security. After an hour of watching the guards, she knows how many steps separate the pairs, how long until they meet again. Still, her heart beats furiously and doesn’t slow until she’s scaled a tree.

To the east, a group of young men are gathered around a fire. To the north, a woman is walking to and fro outside her tent, trying to soothe a fussy child. For now it seems that they are the only ones awake.

Val observes the men again, trying to find one she likes. The boys in her own clan are fond of her, because she’s pretty but unafraid of wrestling in the mud. She even wrestled with one beneath his cloak, but he caught a fever from a passing tribe and died four moons ago.

_Will this new man fight me, want me, then love me after?_

Finally, she chooses one who sits on the fringe of the group. He’s lean but strong, with curly brown hair. She can’t see the color of his eyes, but they are bright and gazing upward at the same stars she saw hours ago. He has a handful of reeds from the river. She watches as he cuts them to bits, each a different length. When he’s finished, a leather band ties them all together.

The man she wants blows into the pipes, creating a soft melody. The restless child is lulled to sleep by the sound, and his mother whispers a thank you. After she’s entered her own tent, the man goes in search of his own.

Val descends the tree and follows him, ever wary of her surroundings. Most of this clan is sleeping; her fear is purely instinctual. _As is this ritual_ , she smiles.

She gives herself one more hour to prepare. He’ll be dreaming by that time, and then she will take him.

 _You are a hunter_ , she tells herself. _You have a hunger_.

The man is long gone when she creeps into his tent. Val holds her breath as she peers at him in the bed of furs. The man—boy, really—is comely, with sharp cheekbones and a mouth curved into a smile, even in sleep.

She binds his hands tight, but with care, should he wake up before the right time. Val then gathers his weapons and straps them to herself, so they can use them upon their return.

She presses the blade to his throat, then sits astride him. His eyes flash open. Up close, she notes they are tawny brown.

“Who are you?” he demands, but quiets when he feels the knife against his skin.

“Val,” she replies, one eye on the entrance to the tent. “And you?”

“Jarl.”

“I’m here to steal you, Jarl.”

The knife moves as he chuckles. “You’re here to steal _me_? You don’t look like a spearwife.”

“I’m not. Not yet, anyway.”

He raises his eyebrows. “What now? Will you take me to your people?”

“Yes,” Val says, pleased. “Though I expect you to fight me.”

“I will,” he promises, but his hands are tied. “Oh.”

“I could gag you,” she says thoughtfully. “Though I didn’t want to tie you up. When we get home, you must play those pipes for me all the time.”

“You were there?”

“That babe and I were entranced by it.”

“There are other ways to silence me, Val,” Jarl smiles. She likes how he says her name.

She lifts the blade and kisses him. His bound hands brush against her chest, and she sighs. “Let us go, then.”

“I’ve never heard of a woman stealing a man,” Jarl says as she pins a cloak on him. “You’re one in a hundred thousand, Val.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

The pipes dangle from his waist as they walk. Jarl makes no sound, but he tugs at the rope often, stubborn as a mule. While they wait for the guards to pass, she twists the rope behind his back and decides it’s more efficient that way. His discomfort prevents further movement, so he goes compliantly. He even whistles the same tune as before.

“We'll rest a moment,” Val says when they pass the first territory tree. “Here, drink this.”

He tilts his head back to sip the mead, his eyes locked with hers. Her voice quavers. “I can untie you now.”

“That’s all right,” says Jarl mildly. “I could still escape.”

“Oh?”

He wiggles his boots. “You didn’t bind my feet. I could run.”

_I stole you, you’re supposed to want me!_

“Then run,” she says angrily. “Leave if you wish.”

“I don’t,” Jarl smiles. “I’m in your clan’s territory now.”

“So?”

“So you stole me. I’m yours.”

Val steps forward tenatively. “You’ll stay?”

He lifts his bound hands over her head to rest at the nape of her neck. “I’ve yielded; you stole me and carried me off. I’ll stay.”

Val seizes his cloak and kisses him again. He sinks to the ground with her, waiting patiently while she frees herself of weaponry. Jarl lets her lead this dance, this is her victory. He’s surprised when she cuts him loose afterward; he presses her back to the ground. Fallen leaves tangle in her plaited hair.

It’s too cold to be rid of the furs completely, so they curl up underneath them, resting on the border of her clan.

Val’s no fool; naive, a summer child, but not foolish. If he wanted to leave, he would have.

“Your father will geld me,” Jarl says anxiously when they reach her family’s tent. She shrugs.

“Have you ever stolen a woman, Jarl? You are under my protection.”

“But I can’t remember a _woman_ stealing a _man_ —”

“Then we’ll blaze a new trail,” Val grins when they slip into her bed. “I choose my own fate.”


End file.
